Page 114 of When Ben Loved Tim
“When you decided to get married, how did you agree on where to live? Why aren’t we having this meal in Mexico City?”
“I love it there,” his mother says. “I still consider it my home. But I got the travel bug while evangelizing and was eager to discover life here.”
“Is it very different?”
She thinks about it and nods. “I feel like people here visit a city to work, or to have fun on the weekend. Mexico City isalivewith a diverse community. Like visiting your relatives, the city won’t allow you any peace and quiet, but it also reminds you of where you belong. That’s too easy to forget here. Otherwise people wouldn’t move around so often.”
She’s already my favorite. I keep asking her questions, almost forgetting that I don’t really need to write a paper. The information she shares with me is valuable anyway, because it’s part of Tim’s heritage. His father interjects on occasion but is mostly quiet. I’m not sure how to engage with him. I can see why Tim wanted me to talk sports, but there’s something penetrating about the older man’s gaze that makes the prospect too intimidating. I feel like he’d detect my insincerity. Still, I do have a few burning questions for him.
I glance around the dining room as Tim and his mother rise to clear away the plates, settling on the painting of Jesus, who is gazing down at the table serenely, seemingly without appetite. “Hey, is that one of Tim’s?” I ask.
His mother follows my stare and smiles. “It certainly is. My favorite of all his paintings.”
“It’s really good! If I had that kind of skill, my parents would make me churn out art to cover the walls. Where are the others?” I ask, making a show of looking around.
“I wish I could show you more,” his mother says pointedly. “Tim has gotten so shy about such things.”
That strikes me as significant, because his art is hardly controversial. The slashed-up canvas of Carla’s younger brother might raise a few eyebrows, if his parents chose to read into it, but the rest is harmless. Like the nice painting of his grandmother. Why isn’t that hanging up here? I can’t think of any reason for Tim to feel so vulnerable about his art. Unless…
I turn my attention to his father. We’re alone in the dining room now. “Does the artistic stuff come from your side of the family? Tim mentioned a grandfather who was an architect.”
“My grandfather actually,” he corrects. “But no, we aren’t an artistic family.”
“You might be now. Tim has real talent.”
“Painting is a hobby,” his father says dismissively, “not an occupation. I told Tim the same thing when he wanted to take art courses.”
“But hecouldmake a living off it. Picasso was rich and famous.”
His father doesn’t seem offended by my persistence, but he does have a certain air, as if I’m being naïve. “Have you met many people who paint for a living? Aside from Picasso.”
I smile in response. “No, but I also haven’t met any professional baseball players or architects.”
“And yet, there are architectural firms Tim could apply to. The same with baseball teams. Such jobs already exist with established organizations. Where can an artist apply for work?”
He’s got a point. Except… “He could take his work to a gallery. That would be the equivalent.”
His father eyes me for a moment. “It would seem that Tim has something of a fan in you.”
I’m not sure I like what he’s implying. Actually, Ilovewhat he’s implying, but I don’t want to rouse his suspicions, so I shrug casually. “I just envy what he can do. I walk past our school’s art department all the time. They have assignments hanging up in the hallways, and none of it can compare to that.” I nod at Jesus. “Tim has a rare gift.”
His father breathes in through his nose before exhaling just as slowly. “He’s welcome to try selling his paintings if he wants. Preferably on the weekend, when he’s not busy working a job that pays the bills.”
Which would be decent advice if Tim was allowed to choose an occupation that actually appealed to him. Not that I don’t get it. Most parents probably want their children to follow in their footsteps. As my mom once said,I must be the only interior designer to give birth to a gay son who doesn’t like to decorate.The difference is that she doesn’t force me to take classes about altering curtains. And it’s not like he wants Tim to join the family business. Becoming a baseball player is probably his own discarded dream.
“And you?” His father prompts. “Where do your aspirations lie?”
“Hey,” Tim says when reentering the room with his mother. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Career goals,” I say, smiling to show him that everything is okay. “I was just about to explain that I like to sing, and that I enjoy writing, but I haven’t figured out what to do with either yet.”
“Find a practical occupation,” his father suggests. “When raising a family, a reliable paycheck will matter more to you than what you dreamed of when young.”
I guess that sums up his stance. He’s not the overbearing monster I expected, but he is strong-willed. And annoyingly enough, I’m not sure that he’s entirely wrong. But when I look at the painting of Jesus again, I’m reminded that some parents are willing to hang their kids out to dry, just to further their own ambitions.
“When I was a little girl,” his mother says, placing a plate in front of me, “I wanted to be a baker.”
I look down at a square of sponge cake covered in whipped cream and topped with a strawberry. Which seems to be sitting in a puddle of some sort. I look up at Tim, who is seated across from me again while rubbing his hands together gleefully. “You’re so freakin’ lucky!” he says with a grin. “And so am I. This is my absolute favorite. It’s even better thanchiles rellenos!”
